past imperfect
by fandomsruinedmylifebut
Summary: Glimpses into eight worlds where history unfolded differently thanks to an accident of birth. Genderswap AU.


**Past Imperfect**

 **i. Lady Catherine Tudor**

Catherine doesn't remember her wedding day.

In truth, there is little she remembers from those first few months at Raglan—unsurprising given her age at the time. Only fragments survive. Playing grandmother's footsteps with Maud and Will in the orchard. The rabble in the great hall. The exact pattern of yellow tiles in the chapel. A maid brushing out her hair for some occasion or other—could that have been when she married Will? Who knows? And, of course, the empty space in every margin and between every line, the absence of her mother.

Mother is still permitted to write and write she does: greetings to pass on to Lord and Lady Herbert; enquiries about Catherine's health; reminders to say her prayers; advice on how to manage the household accounts when she becomes mistress of Raglan (which Catherine heeds; even Lord Herbert comments on her skill with numbers). But they only see each other once, six years after they parted, and by that point any memory Catherine may have had of her is pale as a dream.

The year after that, Lord Herbert is raised to her father's old earldom of Richmond as a reward from the King. And the year after that, when she turns twelve, Will makes her a wife in more than name. Their union is sealed, and not a moment too late.

Warwick rebels. Chaos engulfs the country. Raglan is seized, her father-in-law captured and beheaded. They have to flee.

The following autumn, after the old Queen and Prince of Wales have returned to England, her uncle Jasper stops at Weorbley on his way to court. He leaves without her, never to return. She is a Herbert now, not a Tudor, bound to her husband's family, and to York.

And so she lies low in the country, and waits, as she has waited all her life. Winter gives way to spring. She and Maud play endless games of chess to pass the time. Around them, war keeps on brewing.

The first reports of Tewkesbury trickle in, all about as clear as a foggy day. One thing is certain: the Yorkists have won. The Prince of Wales is slain, and with him die all hopes for Lancaster. King Henry will be gone before the week's out; Catherine would bet money on it. They'll say the grief killed him, but a sword does as good a job. Not that she can blame them. She would do the same, in their position.

Still, when she hears the news, she retreats into her chamber, away from anyone, even Maud, and allows herself an afternoon to brood. Fifty-five years after Agincourt, feuding and bloodshed and folly have cut down the House of Lancaster to nothing. Nobody is left but her and Mother—and who would ever raise armies in their name?

* * *

 **ii. Edward V of England**

Edward is too soft, too merciful, his uncle Richard tells him. One cannot always afford to be kind to one's enemies.

Yes, Edward retorts, but what threat does a half-baked pretender pose to his throne? He has two younger brothers, and an uncle and cousin beyond that. Never has the House of York rested more secure.

And so Lady Derby's incessant lobbying pays off, and he signs an order of extradition for her son, with promises to restore his title and lands, if only he swears fealty to the crown.

Henry Tudor agrees; Edward suspects he has grown tired of his restless, uncertain existence in exile—who wouldn't? But certainly he never expected to like the man as much as he did, or come to value his—and his mother's—counsel so much. Faced with their friendship, what can the last few Lancastrians do but resign themselves to the new order?

As for Edward, he will forever thank God for the stroke of Providence that brought them together. They are like David and Jonathan, he writes to Lady Derby, knit together as one soul, and long may it so remain.

* * *

 **iii. Alfonso XII of Castile and VI of Aragon**

In his time, he is hailed as a second Alexander, a conqueror of nations, a paragon of princes, bringer of peace and prosperity to Spain. In him, the poets write, is united the best of both his parents: his mother's piety and virtue; his father's valour and diplomatic skill.

The poets choose to forget Isabella had her fair share of valour too. Indeed, Alfonso proves himself every inch his mother's son when he rides out to do battle against the French. Aragon can go ahead and sign a treaty with the enemy, he tells his father, but Castile most assuredly will not. Louis has split from the Mother Church. The Holy Father himself has called for war. How can they stand aside and do nothing in the face of schism?

His brother-in-law Philip of Burgundy is willing, no, positively eager to join him. So too is England. The old king may never have forgiven Spain for jilting his unfortunate elder son, but there is every hope the new one will. Alfonso fires off a letter to young Henry, expressing his ardent wish to help him regain the crown of St Louis. He could not have anticipated a more enthusiastic response.

They meet in Calais to cement their alliance, in a summit that will be immortalised in painting, verse and the accounts of awed eyewitnesses. Two kings in their prime, both second sons, both sporting Plantagenet-red hair, brothers-in-arms against the perfidious French.

By the end of the first day of negotiations, Henry is swearing his eternal devotion to the 'finest King in all Christendom'. Alfonso is treated to a spectacular, never-ending round of revels and disguisings, pageants, tilts and jousts, banquets, dancing and music, though he finds time in the midst of it to organise his troops and their supplies, and write to his wife and daughter about matters in Castile. If the whole affair is a little too extravagant, he does not say so. After all, Henry is the one paying for it—and funding the war.

Later, as they always do, the diplomatic tides turn. Henry, lured by flattery and the prospect of glory, allies with France in an about-face that would have done Alfonso's father proud, were it executed with more finesse. No number of envoys, no concessions, no declarations of friendship or angry missives will win him back; not even bribes. Once he has made up his mind, it seems, an angel descending from heaven would fail to move him.

Well, let him side with the French and see where it lands him. England will rue the day it made an enemy of the King of Spain.

* * *

 **iv. Princess Elizabeth of England**

When she sees her mother's body, all neatly laid out for the royal children to pay their respects (though the death was not neat, they never are, as she will learn later), Elizabeth weeps. She howls in a manner most unbecoming to any princess, howls quite shamelessly until her lady grandmother has to drag her out of the chamber, and even then she does not stop.

Mama is gone. Mama, who taught her how to write, who introduced her to all her favourite poets, who always knew exactly the right presents to give. Mama will never pay a visit to Eltham again, never kiss them goodnight, never watch them at their lessons.

Before now, at least they could pretend she was coming back.

"Don't cry," Grandmother says, rubbing Elizabeth's back as she continues to sob. "You'll see each other in Heaven one day, if God wills it."

 _Yes_ , Elizabeth wants to protest, _but that won't be for years and years_. Besides, Grandmother can hardly talk; she wept buckets on hearing of Mama's death, or so the servants whisper.

"And I don't need to remind you to pray for her soul every night, do I?"

"Of course not!"

"Good." If Grandmother took offence at her curtness, she chooses not to show it.

Silence ensues. Elizabeth adjusts her hood, which has fallen askew. She doesn't want to imagine how dreadful she must look, all red-eyed and blotchy-faced. Hardly fit to be seen in public. Good grief, she feels like crying again for the shame of it! No high-born lady would dream of pitching such a tantrum in public, let alone a princess. Mama would never have countenanced it.

But it's Mama's fault she's here in the first place. If only she hadn't died, trying to birth a son to replace Arthur. If only Arthur hadn't decided to catch the Sweat. Or, at the very least, if he had to fall ill, couldn't her brother Edmund have survived?

But no, they're all dead now, all dead, and there's nobody left but her and Mary and Margaret, sent to Scotland four years ago despite Mama's protests.

They're all dead, and that's why the wrinkles on Grandmother's face seem to have multiplied, why the guards keep glancing to themselves when they think nobody's watching, why the maids look so dreadfully pale, why Father's locked himself in his privy chamber and won't come out.

* * *

 **v. Thomas Boleyn, Duke of Wiltshere**

At first, nothing seems to set apart Thomas Boleyn from the common breed of young courtier that flourishes around the King. The ambitious son of an ambitious father, with a no less ambitious brother. A quick wit, a talented linguist, poet and musician, and no sluggard when it comes to sports either. Such men are a dime a dozen at Henry's court.

And yet something endears him to the King above all others. Perhaps it is the sharpness of his laughing black eyes, or his readiness to speak his mind—within limits, of course. Perhaps it is simply that he reminds Henry of the young man he once was (still is, Thomas reassures him), bold and brilliant, thirsting after glory.

Whatever the truth, he rises fast.

It is he who topples Wolsey, he who engineers the match with the Princess Renée, he who is given free rein over the newly-formed Church of England, he who stands as godfather for the Prince of Wales, he who masterminds the dissolution of the monasteries, with Cromwell's help. Honours are heaped upon him: gentleman of the Privy Chamber; Warden of the Cinque Ports; knight of the Order of the Garter; Lord Privy Seal and finally, Lord Chancellor. On his father's death, he is raised to a dukedom. He and Cromwell rule the country, his opponents claim, not the King.

He is unstoppable, until he is not.

Perhaps it should come as no surprise by now, that those whom the King raises, he can also knock down.

* * *

 **vi. John Seymour**

When Thomas and Edward go to court, lured by the prospect of power and rewards, John stays at home. As he remarks to his one remaining brother, Henry, he far prefers Wolf Hall to that den of wolves.

He toys with taking vows and becoming a priest, but decides against it. Instead, he marries the daughter of a local gentleman and settles into the life of a country squire. He gives alms often, hears Mass several times a day, and always has a smile for his tenants' children and his own, when they come. And if in his heart he has always supported the Queen and Princess Mary, he chooses to keep quiet about it.

Still, he cannot help but rejoice when he hears of Anne Boleyn's fall.

* * *

 **vii. Henry, Prince of Wales**

Mary stifles the scream rising in her throat. She must not cry, must not lash out, must not lose control.

"Madam," John Hussey begins. "Madam, what answer will you make to your father?"

Stripped of her livery, household, title, position. Father could not have ordered it; that is unthinkable. Why would he wish her to be made a bastard? What reason is there for it, when she was born and conceived in holy matrimony, when that harlot—that harlot has…

Spots of red dance across her vision.

"Tell him—." She inhales deeply. "Tell him I cannot believe I am anything but his lawful daughter."

Hussey furrows his brow. "Are you quite sure, madam?"

"Do I have any command from His Majesty? Any orders? Anything but your instructions?"

He shakes his head.

"Then I will accept no alteration to my status."

Several of her ladies nod or murmur assent. Even Hussey's eyes are warm, when they meet Mary's. His voice too, when he next speaks, is feebler.

"Madam, you would do well to remember that, as Her Majesty the Queen was delivered of a son this Sunday last…"

He does not need to finish the sentence. _As the King's mistress was delivered of a son this Sunday last, you are no longer his heir. What use is there in fighting the annulment any further? Who would accept you over a boy he acknowledges as his only legitimate child?_

Mary thinks she might be sick, or faint, or both. Her hands are shaking, her heartbeat thrumming rapidly, her breaths spiralling loose.

Has God forsaken her and her mother? Or is He only testing them? Surely the sun of His favour cannot shine on the woman who has led all England astray?

 _She has a son, a healthy son, and your mother does not_.

It is a test. It has to be. Mary shuts her eyes tight, begs God to show her the way forward. Slowly, a sense of peace washes over her, dulls her heart rate, numbs her limbs, and she knows what she must do.

Fight. Fight for the validity of her parents' marriage and the title that should be hers by birth. Fight with every last breath in her body, even if it kills her.

* * *

 **viii. Princess Margaret of England**

Never has Jane felt such fear as this. Not on the day he asked her to marry him, or the few times she dared question his will. Not after the Pilgrimage of Grace. Not even during all the times her courses stubbornly returned, month after month.

"A fine and healthy princess, your majesty," the midwife announces, and in one fell swoop, her hopes, her plans, her security, everything has shattered.

"A princess?" she rasps, too tired after two days and three nights of labour to articulate herself coherently. "A princess? But it wasn't meant…"

Did _she_ feel like this after her daughter was born?

"There, there," says the midwife, in a tone of obviously feigned cheer, as she gathers the squalling bundle into her arms. "She's a pretty little thing—looks like her father already. I'm sure he'll be delighted with her."

Her father. Jane's chest constricts like a noose tightening around someone's neck. Her father. What will he say? Will he give her another chance? Or has she pushed him past the limits of his sufferance? Her only duty, the hope on which all England hinged, and she's failed.

Even that harlot Anne Boleyn did not take seven months to conceive a child.

Whatever she must do to appease him, whatever he commands, she will carry it out. If he orders her into a convent, one of the few he has not yet dissolved, she will obey. She only prays he does order her into a convent, rather than—rather than—perish the thought!

"Sleep," she declares. "I wish to sleep."

Her ladies help her into bed. Her last thought as she drifts into an uneasy slumber is, _I wonder if he'll even bother to hide how disappointed he is_.

Celebrations for the birth of Princess Margaret—as the King has decreed she be called—are appropriately subdued. The jousts have been called off, the Garter stall at Windsor dismantled, the public announcements hastily altered, exactly as they were for the Lady Elizabeth.

The visitors that trickle through into her apartments are polite but cool. None of them mention what they are all undoubtedly thinking, that England must be the laughing-stock of Europe at the moment. Three daughters by three different wives! What misfortune! Or perhaps it is no misfortune; perhaps God has put the King under a curse.

The Lady Mary, at least, offers some consolation. As soon as she enters, she dips into a curtsey.

"Majesty," she begins, "may I offer my congratulations?"

"You may." Jane forces out a feeble smile.

"The Princess must be a joy to you and my lord father." She smiles back; even her eyes glow. _Perhaps she is glorying at your bad luck_ , whispers a cynical voice at the back of Jane's mind. _Her father will have to restore her to the succession now_. _But no_ , she reminds herself, _Mary has always loved small children_.

After too long a pause, "She is," Jane replies.

"I only hope I can fulfil my duties as godmother to—to the very best of my abilities." She lowers her voice. "And I pray she will have many brothers to follow."

A few treacherous tears squirm their way out of Jane's eyes. "So do I. So do I."

"Majesty." Mary leans closer. "I am sure—if God raised you to this position, he did not mean for you…it is only a test. It must be."

"Thank you." Jane clasps her stepdaughter's hand. "We have to keep faith. It's all we can do."

When she has borne the King's sons (when, not if, she cannot consider if), she will look back at these days and thank God for upholding her. Or so she tells herself, so she must tell herself again and again, until she believes it.

She does not know that there will be no second chance, that childbed fever will carry her away within two weeks, leaving an infant daughter as the King's only legitimate heir.

Some will claim she died of a broken heart. If only the truth were as poetic.


End file.
